


Days

by olippe



Series: Time [2]
Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: Childhood Friends, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M, but they're kids so it's okay, paul thinks artie is a hamster, shut up, they cute, they're stupid, uwu stuff, uwuwu mrs robinson, we think so too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24042406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olippe/pseuds/olippe
Summary: Over the course of one week.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Series: Time [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1734310
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	1. Wednesday

**Author's Note:**

> Yo, I'm bridging because my head needs happy stuff :^)  
> Okay they're a little sad here, but it's generally a happy stuff :^)  
> Let's just say it's happy :^)
> 
> I STARTED WITH A WEDNESDAY BECAUSE IT'S WEDNESDAY, SHUT IT.  
> I'll try to update every day of the week lol :^)  
> I put it in a series so you can find time-related titles in one place, but it's not related
> 
> I'M OPEN TO SUGGESTIONS, TALK ABOUT IT ANYWHERE AND I WILL LISTEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Past midnight in the park.

“I dare you.”

“I’m not gonna do it!”

“I double dare you.”

“Paul…”

“I _triple_ dare you.”

They got quiet. Art cocked his head to the side. “You don’t know what’s bigger than triple, do you?”

Paul’s eyes found the ceilings, darting from side to side. “Fourple.”

Art giggled. Paul threw a pillow belligerently at him. “Shut up,” he laughed. Art’s giggling was muffled when the pillow hit him on the face. He was never really known for his fast reflexes. Paul caught his hand before he fell backwards. “Come on! Let’s do it!”

Art quickly shook his head. “No. No way! My Mom’s gonna be mad if she found out!”

“She’s not gonna find out! That’s why ‘secretly’, remember?” Paul folded his arms in front of his chest. “Unless you plan to tell your Mom, like you always do.”

Art blushed and shook his head again, looking down.

“Good. Then she’s not gonna find out! Come on! Get your shoes!”

“Paaaul,” Art pulled on Paul’s arm with both hands. “It’s cold outside, and very, _very_ dark. What if there’s—”

“A ghost?”

“A child murderer.”

Paul laughed loudly and quickly muffled his mouth with his hand. He sat on the windowsill and quickly opened the windows. Art watched him with a pout as Paul pushed his head out, as if laughing towards the backyards would make it impossible to be heard by the people inside the bedroom. He coughed at the end of his fit, and he pounded his fists to stop everything, then he turned his head to Art, teary-eyed and very red. “I’ll tackle him and you can run. And, anyway, it’s not that cold! It’s summer!”

“It’s May.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Technicality. Come on, it’s warm enough. Just get your jacket.” Art cowered reluctantly. Paul sighed and walked towards him, extending his arm. “Come on. I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise.”

Art’s eyebrows furrowed. He looked at Paul’s hand dubiously. “You always said ‘I promise’ every time you want me to do something stupid.”

Paul grinned. “And don’t you always have fun?”

Slowly, Art began to smile. He looked at Paul’s grinning face and, without words, took his hand and took his leave.

***

The street at night was a mystical place to be. There were streetlamps instead of sunlight, deafening silence instead of low chatters, menacing shadows instead of waving neighbours. Art walked as closely to Paul as possible, who, as per his habit, trotted ahead in faster pace than comfortable for Art. He eventually had to take out his hand out of his jacket pocket to take a hold on Paul, making sure he’s not gonna be left behind. Paul scowled at the nervous grip and said, “What are you, eight?”

“Twelve!” Art answered defensively. “Almost!”

Paul giggled in reply. He let Art hold on to him as he led them through a few turns and a few more paces. Soon enough, they found themselves in the nearby park, looking almost like a scene from a horror movie in the dark. Art secretly shuffled closer to Paul, a little terrified, but Paul soon dashed towards the swing, pulling Art with him. Art loudly whispered for him to slow down, but Art soon matched Paul’s pace and they pranced quickly until they’re met with uninhabited swing.

“Whoa,” Art whispered. “You don’t get to play with this often when it’s daylight.”

“I know,” Paul whispered back. It’s an almost-legendary swing in the neighbourhood. The park was empty save for a sandbox and shabby monkey bars, and one day, a swing, made from giant black tire that’s cut-up into a makeshift seat, was suddenly hung in the corner of the park. A couple of swings were installed last month, but kids still mostly queued for the tire swing. Everyone loved the mysterious present, and kids had been writing up little messages on the walls to thank the anonymous handyman behind the swing.

Paul elbowed Art gently. “You sit. I’ll push.”

Art accepted the offer jubilantly, his steps springy as he approached the tire swing. Paul got behind him and gave Art a little push, adjusting to the task carefully before making stronger shoves that got Art to giggle as he swung higher towards the moon. Art’s legs moved in the air, like nervous jellyfish, and Paul couldn’t help but grinning. He jumped to catch the swing, and pushed harder.

The swing soon decelerated when both of them got a little exhausted with the jumping and yelping. Art was still beaming broadly when the swing came to a near halt. His legs were cold, but his heart was thumping excitedly; because he jumped out of his bedroom window and went out of the house at three in the morning, and because he just sailed towards the moon from an abandoned park. This must be the most interesting night any boy could ever have!

He twirled his head. “Paul, you wanna…”

Art didn’t get to finish his sentence. No, it wasn’t a child murderer, or a ghost, or his angry mother. It was Paul, wrapping his arms around Art.

“Art,” he said, “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I may or may not have modelled little Artie out of my sister (she told Mum EVERYTHING). And now that I think about it, she has curly hair, has nice voice, is the 'pretty one', is the golden child, and... she's... ONE FULL HEAD TALLER THAN ME. (Okay, no one talk to me about this but I NEED TO CALL STAFF TO FETCH JUICE ON TOP SHELF. Needless to say, my trips to Aldi are always peppered with tears.)


	2. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After school in the bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided this thingy had to be a continuous story after all... SO NOT MUCH HAPPENED HERE BUT WAIT UNTIL FRIDAY.

_Not to sound like girls, but boys are gross._

Art was thinking that as he rolled around on his bed. His hair must look like a great ball of fuzz by now. He plopped on his belly, pouting to the blue-and-white stripes of his new bed sheet. His Mum always changed the bed sheet every time he received an overnight guest—other than during winter holiday, this exclusively meant Paul Simon.

“ARTIE!”

His bedroom door burst open. “Artie, Artie, Artie!” Paul ran through it and hopped on his back. Art felt like someone punched the air out of him—which wasn’t very wrong, too. People should really stop treating Paul as if he lived in this house; this boy had no boundaries. Paul poked on Art’s shoulder. “Math help. Help math. _Help with math._ Do my homework. No, wait. Help me do my math homework.”

Art grumbled to his blanket. “Paaaul…” He wriggled under Paul. “Heavy! Move!”

Paul ignored Art’s protest. He waved his book in front of Art and opened it. “Look. What the hell does that mean?”

Art tried to wrestle himself off Paul. “Paul, I can’t do math like this.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Okay, you’re right.” Art sighed and pulled the book. “Which one do you need help with?”

Paul drew a pencil out of his pocket and poked on a question. Art was quickly absorbed in math problems that he forgot that Paul was piling on top of him and he should’ve been mad about it. It wasn’t a very difficult homework anyway, and they finished it quickly. Paul simply needed a refreshing, and Art was an exceptionally patient teacher. Soon enough, Paul closed the book shut and sighed in relief. “Okay, listen…”

Art didn’t want to hear that. Before Paul finished the sentence, he yelled, “PAUL, I CAN’T BE YOUR GIRLFRIEND.”

They paused.

Paul drew his hands a little. “What?”

Art buried his face onto his bedsheet. “I’m sorry, but that’s gross!”

“Are you saying I’m gross?”

“No, but boys are gross.”

“Are you saying you’re gross?”

“No…”

Paul giggled. Art hated this sort of giggling. It only came out when Paul’s laughing at him when he’s exceptionally flustered and serious about what he’s flustered about. Art struggled to get loose, but Paul gripped his wrists and let his laughter come to an end. “Stop squirming, you squid! Okay, you’re so stupid. _Of course_ you can’t be my girlfriend. You’re not a girl, idiot!”

“But…” Art frowned. Paul finally let go of him, and Art quickly sat up. “But, then why did you say you love me? That’s what people say when they want to have girlfriends.” Art slumped weakly. “That’s what happened in the movies. Isn’t it?”

Paul plastered a wide grin on his face, looking at Art as if he’s the most hilarious occurrence in the world. Art tried to disappear and failed. “Artie,” he started with a patient tone. Paul reached to pinch Art on both cheeks, pulling him from side to side with each syllable spoken, “I-love-you.” He tilted his head and laughed a little. “I say that a lot. Why are you freaking out about yesterday?”

Art furrowed his eyebrows. “I don’t know.” He pouted. “Because you hugged me?”

“I _just_ hugged you. I literally hug you _every day._ ” Art seemed to agree with that. Paul nodded, satisfied. “Okay, then. Stop being all squiggly. So, listen, I heard they’re opening a travelling carnival tomorrow night. Wanna go with me?”

Art straightened his back, excited. “Travelling carnival? With freak shows and fire thingy?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But, food!” He bounced excitedly on Art’s bed, making it spring noisily. Art laughed and grabbed his arm to stop his flailing. Paul grinned widely. “What do you say? I bet if we get Jules to come with us, your parents wouldn’t mind letting us go.”

Art hesitated. His mother wouldn’t have trusted Jules all that much—he was, after all, only a couple of years older than Art and was not all that grown up. “What about _your_ parents? Won’t they mind?”

“Mum might. Dad won’t be around to protest. Let’s get Eddie, too! And other people! Do you have friends?”

Art stammered. “Well…”

“I’m just joking. You only have me. Anyway, let’s talk to her! Let’s talk to your Mum! Just say yes to everything she proposed, and we’re good to go.” Paul yanked Art’s arm, hopping like a little bunny. Art giggled and nodded. Paul’s excitement was always so contagious. He moved to leave his bed, but Paul suddenly stopped. “Wait,” he said, returning to Art. His left hand searched for his back pocket. “Open your mouth.”

Paul popped in a tiny something that tasted like chocolate into Art’s mouth. He munched a little, then frowned a little, and nodded a little. “My Mum made tiny brownies. Actually, I think it’s the whole giant tin, but she cut it into tiny pieces.” Paul watched while Art—nervously—chewed. Then he couldn’t contain himself and grinned, and squealed, and pulled Art’s head into a hug. “You’re like a tiny hamster, I love you so much.”

Then he pulled Art’s arm again and led him to where Mrs. Garfunkel was. Art listened as he negotiated the terms of their extended Friday curfew while he swallowed the last of the brownie crumbs with his head completely bedazzled. That was a different ‘I love you’ from the one before, which was also very different from the one in the park, which was also different from Paul’s other I-love-you’s. This one’s ‘I love my pet’ kind. The one before that was ‘you’re my stupid friend’ kind. He’d said ‘I love you’ as a substitute for ‘thank you’ a lot of times, and surely there were other kinds too that he’d said before today.

Art stood there and he processed why this whole ‘I love you’ thing was such a big deal, and after a long while, his keen mind eventually caught on a little part of it. See, it’s difficult to comprehend quickly because he didn’t have any other friend that’s as close with him as Paul was to make a fair comparison…

… but he’s sure that none of them had ever told him ‘I love you’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was in school, I wouldn't do my math homeworks unless "Morning Has Broken" by Cat Stevens was on the radio. Considering how rare that happened, I'm surprised that I graduated at all...


	3. Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friday night at the carnival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .......... this turned out to be longer than i intended.

Every two hours, Paul would yell out of excitement about the night’s entertainment. He received one warning, one minor detention, one choking-on-his-sandwich, and a _lot_ of odd looks from his classmates. When the school ended, he jumped and pounded his fists in the air, chanting, “CAR-NI-VAL! CAR-NI-VAL!”

Art longed for a friend that wouldn’t embarrass him.

Their mothers had agreed to let them go to the carnival. Because Eddie and Jerry would be there, too, the mothers decided that it's best to come along to oversee their operation, then they would take the little children home at 8 PM, but the older kids may stay a bit later. Paul’s Mum made him promise to be home by 9 at the latest, and Jules arranged an agreement to stay until 9.30. The deal was, he could either stay until 10 but be with Paul and Art until it’s their time to go home, _or_ do whatever he wanted until 9.30. It’s an easy compromise; definitely much more agreeable than Eddie and Jerry's "either go home at 8, or don't go at all".

Art came to Paul’s after school, to do their homeworks together and to discuss strategy. Eddie was with them, coyly asking questions for his English homeworks. Paul seemed to enjoy his role as an older brother. He’d answer with softer voice for Eddie, in comparison to his automated “SHUT UP BONEHEADS” when speaking with the rest of human population.

It was then that Art realised that Paul pretty much treated him like he did Eddie. Paul, too, treated Eddie like a little puppy—with a lot of head-petting and a lot of offering foods, among other things. This made Art happy a little. As an honorary brother, an ‘I love you’ wasn’t very weird. Art was just overthinking. Because it was outside and on a school night and way past their bedtime, everything felt weird while it really wasn’t. Classic Art.

“So, what I think is,” Paul said, after finishing his history homework, “we try to get our Mums to buy us food. That way, we can use all of our money for the attractions and games.”

“What if they _don’t_ buy us food?”

“What kind of mean woman you have for mother? Of course they’d buy us food.” Paul scratched his temple with the butt of his pencil. “But, okay, there’d be a lot of food. So, strategy: we set aside some money to buy _one_ food that we can _all_ eat together. You know, popcorns, French fries, cotton candies… you get the picture. That way, we get to try _four_ foods. And the rest of our money can be used to play games.”

Art nodded. “Okay. And if our Mums _do_ buy us food, what do we get?”

Paul thought about it a while. “We buy food that we can’t share. Like caramel apples or popsicles.”

Eddie cooed, “I _really, really_ want corndogs.”

Art chimed in. “I really, really want caramel apples.”

“Hey, focus!” But they couldn’t anymore. The rest of the day was spent to drift away into a dream of deep-fried foods and sugary snacks (Paul said he wanted to see if they actually had deep-fried battered lizards and if they did, that’s what he’d buy with his share). They sat with their chin propped on their open palms and sighed in steady intervals, waiting for the evening to come approaching.

***

Jerry knocked on the bedroom door. “Artie!” he called. He pressed his ear to the door. “Artie, come on!”

Even though he tried to be fast, Art still took a lot of time in the bathroom. And worse, he wasn’t a very quick dresser either. But he pushed and pulled on his clothes as fast as he could and quickly opened the door to find the blinking Jerry behind it. “We will be late! What’s taking you so long?”

Art was still brushing his hair. “We’re not gonna be late. It’s not school.”

Jerry toddled into Art’s bedroom, slightly stomping because he was nervous and a little upset. “Well, you’re going to stay longer, so it wouldn’t matter for you. But I only have until 8, you know?” Art mumbled a little sorry. Jerry put his hands on his hips. “Are you scared that you’re gonna be outside at night on your own?”

“Hmmm, no? Paul’s gonna be there, too.”

Jerry thought _that_ would be even scarier, but he decided to say that tomorrow instead. Freaked-out Artie's not really needed when they're in a hurry. So Jerry sat on the bed, then clasped his hands and, instead, said with a small voice, “Are you going to leave me?” he asked. Jerry looked inquisitively at Art, who was too confused to answer. He swung his legs nervously. “Because Paul will be there. You will want to play with him, won’t you?”

Art widened his eyes. “No, we’re all gonna play together! I promise!” He rushed to sit with Jerry, patted him on the back, then used the brush to neaten up his brother’s hair, like his mother usually did when he's feeling uneasy. For some reason, that trick worked. Art spoke in soothing voice, “And there’s gonna be Eddie, too, and Paul would want to play with Eddie. So we’re all gonna play together. Don’t worry.”

Jerry thought about it for a while, then nodded. “Don’t let go of my hand and help me if I can’t reach something.”

Art grinned. “I can hear Paul saying that, too. Okay.”

Art held Jerry’s hand and took him to the kitchen where his mother was already waiting. Jules, she said, would come later with his friends—after all, the car wouldn’t be able to fit all of them. Art nodded and they raised to their feet and walked towards the Simons, holding hands like little ducks behind their mother.

As soon as the Simons house came into view, Art heard a faint screaming of his name. Paul was visible through the window of the second floor where his bedroom was—by his side, Eddie joined in and screamed his name, too. “ARTIE! ARTIE! ARTIE!” then Paul, in even louder voice: “MUM, ARTIE’S HERE! LET’S GO!” And the last he could hear, as Paul drew the windows shut, was the Simon brothers chanting, “CAR-NI-VAL! CAR-NI-VAL!” Art looked up at his Mum who shook her head a little and laughed a whisper, “Oh, they’re a headache.”

The two mothers exchanged pleasantries through the short drive, secretly whispering their hidden desire to buy a pretzel for themselves. Art and Jerry were too nervous to say a word, but they listened to the conspiring Simons to their left. Art whispered to Jerry to keep his money close, and Jerry whispered the same to Eddie, who nodded and clutched his pocket tightly. Art and Paul shared a look, and while it meant nothing, it made the two of them smile.

***

Mrs. Simon called out to her sons when they started to run the minute the car reached the parking lot. They immediately stopped, but still hopped energetically while waiting for everyone to get closer. Paul took Eddie’s hand and walked ahead; behind him were Artie and Jerry, with the mothers watching sharply from the back of the line. As soon as they found themselves among the carnival crowd, Eddie tugged on his mother and pointed at the corndogs stall. She bought all four of them one stick and they walked around briefly when Art found a long queue and called out to Paul, “What’s a snow cone?” Paul poked him on the back and told him to stand in the queue, but their mothers were as interested and volunteered to take the task.

“Don’t wander too far, don’t let go of your brother’s hand, and come back here in 10 minutes!” they warned, as they let their kids go. They squealed and ran towards the rows of game booths. They took turn playing the ring toss, then skittered towards the water gun. Paul got a prize for playing the milk bottle, and chose a pretty coin purse. Art looked at him dubiously, and Paul explained, “I’m giving it to my Mum so she’ll be happy and give us more free food or something. You two’d better think of something to bribe your Mum, too.”

“Shrewd,” Art commented, and took Jerry to a hoop shoot game while the Simons admired the fire-breather. Sure enough, when presented with the cheap prizes, the boys were treated to play bumper cars and a ride on Ferris wheel (Art was sure they’re gonna drop and die). When they returned to the ground, they all chipped in to buy a giant funnel cake, French fries, cotton candy, and Paul didn’t find any lizards but got his hands on a couple of oddity that was deep-fried ice creams that he broke in two so each of them had half.

Eventually, they found Jules on the side of the carousel, trying to eat a loaded sub with his friends. It was around the time for the youngest brothers to take their leave, and everyone was spending their time listening to the Simons arguing about extending Eddie’s stay in the carnival. Jules approached to greet the mothers, and he excitedly watched the two boys pleading loudly.

While waiting for the heated discussion to die down, Art bent down to pat Jerry. “Did you have fun?” Jerry nodded. Art smiled. “Do you wish you can stay longer?”

He shrugged. “No, I’m sleepy. But you have fun. See what's in that very long queue.”

“I saw that. It’s a haunted house. My friends and I are gonna go there,” said Jules.

His mother gasped. “You definitely are not going there and scare yourself!”

Jules stole a glance towards his friends, slightly blushing and panicking. “I’m not gonna be scared, Mum! I’m 14!”

“13 and a half.” His mother nodded at Mrs. Simon, who sighed and dropped her final refusion with a mild threat involving absence of desserts for the rest of the week. She dragged the sad Eddie behind her and Paul waved goodbye, equally sad. Mrs. Garfunkel tugged on her youngest's hand. “Come on, Jerry. Jules, watch over your brother, please? Just for five minutes after I’m gone?”

Jules sighed and nodded. He waved at his mother, then looked down to Art with his hand on hip. “So, you want me to watch over you?” Art shrugged. Jules pouted and nodded. “Know what? I’ll take you to buy that lemonade over there. That’ll take 5 minutes. Then I’ll go back to my friends and you… do what you want with… that.”

“Paul.”

“Yeah. That. Come on.”

The two of them followed Jules to the lemonade queue even though they didn't really want lemonade. But it's a good idea, considering neither party wanted the company and they're trying to get rid of one another as fast as they could. Paul and Art eventually wasted their coins on a couple of lemonades, and quickly bade Jules a goodbye. He skipped back to his friends merrily, shouting a "Don't get kidnapped! You, get my brother home, or else!" Paul took a sip of his lemonade and frowned. “Your brother doesn’t like me very much, does he?”

“What? No. He’s,” Art paused, “neutral about you.” Paul lifted an eyebrow. Art laughed. “Well, he’s not your friend, so does it matter? Come on, let’s play one of those shooting things. Or that dart thing. Or that other thing on that side of the carnival.”

Paul grinned. “You’re afraid I’m gonna take you to the haunted house, aren’t you?”

Art recoiled. “No, I’m not.”

Paul shrugged. “Okay, then. Let’s play that balloon dart, then let’s do the haunted house before we go home.”

Art looked at Paul, frowned, then nodded defiantly. Paul grinned and dragged Art away. Art checked his watch and quickly recounted to Paul the estimated time for each activity they're interested in doing, and offered a suggestion on how to make most of their last hour. Paul nodded in agreement, but largely ignored his rambling. They waved when they found their friends, and Art quietly warned him that his secret handshake would cost them a possibility to play one last spin-the-wheel. The two of them counted the last of their coins, threw darts at balloons, and stood in queue for the haunted house.

The most interesting about this part of the evening was, Paul was more afraid of ghosts than Art. So while Art screeched loudly from time to time, Paul let go of his hand because he didn’t want Art to know that he was trembling uncontrollably. Art giggled shakily behind him, which made the whole trek even scarier. Eventually, both of them made a run for it and could hear a scattering laughter in the dark behind them.

They sat down at the side of the haunted house the moment they broke through, exhaling loudly and tried to stop their trembling. Paul definitely felt that the lemonade was pounding on his bladder, but he didn’t wanna waste time with public restroom queue. He looked at Art briefly and thought he’d probably be able to talk him into keeping guard as he took a piss in public property. Or actually, that was too much trouble. Art was the kind who'd say, "But that's not nice!" and convincing him would take as long as lining for the restroom.

Meanwhile, as he was catching his breath, Art caught a glimpse of silhouette of Jules and his friends leaning on the fences across the field, probably watching to see if someone was crying as they walked away from the haunted house. Art tried to hide himself into the darkness, a little sad that his hair was almost a glow-in-the-dark material. He checked in with his legs to see if he could start walking normally again, and reached out to urge Paul to move away.

But Paul was nowhere to be found.

Art quickly stood up. “Paul?!” he called, his screaming surprised kids who were fresh out of the haunted house, giving them additional scare. Art muttered an apology and started sprinting around the house, trying to find Paul. The back of the house was crowded by the monster-costumed staffs, and Art screamed and ran to the other direction. He twirled his head frantically, yelling loudly for Paul, but his calls weren't answered.

His heart was thumping wildly. The crowd seemed to be so far away from where he was standing; it was as if he was a world away here, under the shades of a rickety shack. The shadows of Jules and friends were moving away, and Art was torn between asking him for help or hiding the fact that the haunted house scared shit out of him. Trembling, Art looked up at the moon and remembered the one he sailed towards a couple of nights before, when his heart was thumping for different reason, and how the reason changed as the clock ticked. It was night, and everything in the night time felt different. That night, everything felt weird. Tonight, everything felt scary.

Art crouched on the ground and sobbed into his knees.

All of a sudden, Art felt a pull on his arm, and he quickly looked up. "Artie!" Paul came into view and he was frowning and yanking Art to his feet. “Why are you crying? What are you doing here?”

Art wiped his damp eyes. “Where _were_ you?!” he shrieked, pushing Paul angrily.

Paul looked bewildered. “I… peed, remember? I told you I was going to pee behind the trees. You’re supposed to stay.” He frowned again. “You didn’t listen to me, did you?”

Art stuttered, then looked to his feet. “No.”

Paul opened his mouth to retort him, but, seeing Art with teary eyes like that, he quickly changed his mind. He quietly took Art’s wrist and led him away from the haunted house. Art's still trembling a little; probably more from the fear of being left alone by Paul than from the teenagers in white face powder and fake blood. Paul sighed. “I _did_ tell you, you know?”

Art nodded. He must have.

The two of them stopped and sat under the shades of the trees, completely invisible from passer-by’s—which Art preferred, because he didn’t want people to think that he was crying because of the haunted house. He kept quiet, looking at his hands sadly and feeling a little stupid. It was the residual fear from the attraction that got him to think that he's going to be kidnapped by a sketchy, monstrous carnival man and enslaved to travelling carnival sort of chores—like feeding the lions, being the apprentice of a fortune teller, or peeling potatoes for a mean two-bellied man. Or maybe Paul was. Art whimpered softly to the fold of his arms, rocking gently to calm himself down. Worst things in the world seemed to be very possible to happen when Paul wasn't around, and he couldn't help himself from crying when he thought of it.

At his side, Paul glanced briefly at his watch. They should be going home soon if they wanna make the curfew. But Paul didn’t really care about the curfew anyway, and Art was still sobbing a little. He sighed slowly and leaned back, trying to come up with excuses for later that night.

A loud boom suddenly erupted somewhere close and Paul jumped in surprise. But the darkness was, soon and for a moment, filled with orange and bright yellow. He smiled broadly. Paul gently elbowed Art on the arm. “Art, fireworks!”

But he found Art was cowering even deeper into himself, his hands pressed to his ears. Paul laughed and poked on him again. “God, I forgot, you and your fear of loud noises. You’re like a horse, do you know that?” Art mumbled something, looking upset, and shook his head in anger. Paul giggled and sat up to his knees, shuffling to get behind Art. “Okay, I’ll muffle the noise, but just look up. It’s really nice.” Paul pressed his hands against Art’s, providing him extra noise protection.

Still irritated and scowling, Art eventually lifted his head and looked at the line of smoke from fireworks slicing through the clouds with whistling sound, then it exploded in bursts of colours and dissolved into a rain of crackling fire. Slowly, a smile spread on Art’s face and he subtly turned it into a shy giggle. Paul grinned when he noticed the happy quake between his palms, and for a while, he simply stared at how Art’s face turned red, then green, then bright yellow from the fireworks.

Then Paul leaned over and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I just noticed that all parts from [We're Going](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629406) have double digit kudos now (●´∀｀●) Thank you all!


	4. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quiet time at home.

His peers—the boy ones—were on the age where they treat other boys as if they’re made of germs. Sure, you’d see their arm occasionally slinging over the other’s shoulder, but that’s just as far as physical contacts go. Handshake, of course. Probably hug on big occasions. And for verbal exchange? “Check this out, man (but within 2 miles radius please),” or something like that. Not "I love you", not "you're so cute", none of that.

Art was thinking about Paul as he pushed his arm out of the shirt sleeve, changing out of his formal clothes and into a more comfortable house wear. Did he treat other friends differently? Maybe. Not that he exactly had friends. Maybe he did, but, just like Art, no one that would make a fair comparison. So perhaps they’re a pretty special case, and perhaps that’s why Art was treated specially.

But surely a kiss was beyond all that.

Art slipped out of his bedroom and peeked into the hall. The house was quiet because everyone was tired from last night’s carnival and this morning’s service. His mother must be starting the lunch prep now, and his father was probably reading newspapers in the backyard because the weather was nice. Jerry had an early nap and Jules was… not very affected, it seemed. So Art climbed upstairs and saw the door to his bedroom was slightly opened, and he carefully poked his head in.

Jules looked up from a magazine he’s reading. “You’re supposed to knock first.”

Art nodded. “I know. I’m sorry.”

He lifted an eyebrow. Art was always a fidgety kid, but he didn’t usually come to Jules when he’s being fidgety. Not anymore, at least. So this must be a special occasion. Jules beckoned at Art. “It’s okay. Close the door behind you." Art did as told and inched closer towards the bed. Jules watched him as he moved nervously like an untrusting baby deer. "What’s wrong? Did that Paul kid do something to you in the carnival?”

“What? No. Why did you ask that?”

Jules shrugged. “That’s the most recent thing that happened in your life. Did you go to the haunted house, pissed your pants, and the shorty saw the whole thing and he’s blackmailing you into doing all his math homeworks?”

“No!” Art scowled and put his hands on his hips. “Jules, why do you hate Paul?”

“I don’t _hate_ him,” he sighed. Jules frowned and rolled his magazine, tapping it on his knee absent-mindedly. “He’s just a bit… much. I don’t know. But, seriously, what’s wrong?”

Carefully, Art approached Jules and sat at the edge of the bed. He looked at his brother, then looked away, blushing and nervous. He didn’t know what he expected, but Jules was older and he must know… _something._ Maybe. Art didn’t even know if he did, but he was bursting with nerves and he had nowhere to go. He gulped. “Jules,” he started, his fingers fiddling with each other, “have you ever kissed a girl?”

A smile bloomed on Jules’s face and he started chuckling because it’s the right thing to do. “No way!” he laughed. Art bowed his head lower, reddening beyond repair. “Someone _kissed you_? Did _you_ kiss someone? No, someone kissed you. I’m right, right?”

Art punched him weakly. “Shut up.”

“OH MY GOD, WHO?” Now the rolled-up magazine was used to slap Art on the arm on repeat. Jules giggled. “Is it that girl from Sunday school? What’s her name? Ivy Schuster? No, wait, the one from your group project, with that _hideous_ glasses?”

“Shut up! I’m telling Mum!”

“About what? That you just kissed a girl with… Okay, don’t cry. Sit down, sorry. It’s just funny! Sorry.” Art didn’t cry, but he realised that he was about to. Jules changed the use of the magazine into head-patting apparatus. “I’m sorry. But if _I’m_ the one who told you that, you would’ve laughed too, wouldn’t you? Come on, that’s a little funny.” Art shrugged. Jules was right, but he didn’t wanna tell him that because he’s upset. Jules grinned a little. “But you _knew_ I was gonna laugh. Why did you tell me?”

Art shrugged again. “I don’t know. I just thought you’d know something to say about it.” Art folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. “You’ve never kissed a girl, have you?”

This time, it’s Jules who glared and blushed. “Of course I have.”

“No you haven’t.”

“Shut up.” Jules hit Art on the head once, and Art grinned to himself. It wasn’t much, but at least he got his brother flustered, so Art would count that as a victory.

Jules folded his legs and returned to tapping his knees again. After a moment of silence, he cleared his throat. “I don’t hate your friend,” he said. Art straightened his back, listening. Jules put down the magazine and looked at his brother gravely. “I’m just a bit upset because… You know. Ever since you’re friends with him, you don’t talk with me as much anymore. I mean, I bet you’ve already told him this before you came to me.”

Art twitched. “In a way,” he mumbled. Jules nodded and sighed. Art frowned. “So you’re saying… you’re jealous of Paul?”

“Don’t make me sound disgusting,” he laughed. “But, yeah, kinda.” Jules hit Art with the magazine again, this time, fondly. “You were my best friend, bro. I know I have friends too, now, and I hang out with them more than I hang out with you… But, you know. I still like you. It sucks that we don’t get to be each other’s best friends anymore.”

“Oh.” Art smiled. “Oh. I think you’re still my friend. Of course, you’re a little mean sometimes…” he paused, “but so is Paul… so… I think I’m used to it, so it’s fine…”

Jules laughed. “That’s true. I don’t know why you don’t get better friends. Yeah, why _don’t_ you? Why are you even friends with that tiny menace?”

“Okay, first of all, don’t call him that to his face because he _will_ punch you and it _hurts._ ” Art shrugged. “And… I don’t know. He’s nice to me. Sometimes. I don’t know. He likes me.”

Jules grinned broadly. “Oh my God. It was him, wasn’t it? _He_ kissed you, didn’t he?”

“What? No!”

“Paulie and Artie sitting in a tree…”

“Shut up!” Art hit Jules wherever he could reach, and Jules just laughed at the feeble attacks. Angrily, Art stood up and stomped towards the door. “I’m never gonna talk to you, ever again! And, by the way, I know where you hid your unsanitary magazines, and if you’ve ever told anyone about this, I’m gonna tell Mum!”

Jules quickly jumped up. “No, you don’t.”

“Ya-huh! Paul snuck in and showed it to me! So, zip it, Modern Man!” Art (softly, because he’s a nice kid) slammed the door shut, then ran down the hall. What was he thinking, talking to Jules? Maybe he thought they’d be able to talk about things that upset them, and Jules would be nice and give him sweets to lift his spirit, like in the old times. But, no, Jules wasn't being _nice at all._ His mother was right—Jules should _never_ have been exposed to those nasty kids that he called friends. No, actually, it’s not Jules. Art was just being an idiot, as usual. That’s all.

Still fuming, Art tiptoed towards the kitchen. As predicted, he found his mother sitting cross-legged, reading the magazine, probably looking for a recipe or was getting out of preparing food. If there’s anyone who could make him feel better, he thought, it would be his mother. Art cleared his throat until his mother noticed him with a smile. “Hello, dear. We’re having some beef stew, do you wanna help with the table?”

Art looked behind his shoulder nervously, afraid that Jules would be following him. Finding no one, he quickly scuttled towards his mother. Art sat as close as possible to her, and hugged her neck. His mother frowned and made a worried smile as she patted him on the back with a, “What is it, Artie?” She tried not to be too happy, but her boys were getting big, and it’s a rarity to have this sort of clingy moment nowadays. She hugged him tighter and leaned her head on his. “Are you alright, darling?”

Art nodded, but he was quiet. Rose knew her son very well, though, so she let him stay that way and waited patiently until he began squirming, which was his signal that he’s about to speak. “Mummy,” he said onto the back of her neck, “Mummy, what do I do if someone said they love me?”

Rose pursed her lips. She breathed out slowly in lieu of a giggle, and stroked her son very gently. “Well, baby,” she whispered softly, “it’s really up to you. What do you wanna do?” She pulled him away from the embrace to look him in the eyes. Rose hid her craving to laugh so well, not even her mother would know. She caressed Art on the cheek and smiled. “Are you two friends?” Art nodded. “Okay…” Her eyes flitted upwards while she thought of the next thing to say. She absently stroked Art’s thigh, something she knew would usually calm him down. “Do you still want to be friends with her?”

Her. Art opened his mouth to correct his mother, but he couldn’t say it. He felt his hands started to sweat. He gulped, then quickly nodded to end the moment. “Yes, I do.”

“Then you should tell her that,” she said. “Just tell her that you want to be friends, like you always have. You don’t have to change anything if you don’t want to.”

Art looked down. “S-she didn’t want that, too. I think… I think we’re still friends.”

Rose nodded. “Okay. Then, it’s fine, right? You see, Artie, friendship is also a kind of love. So you don’t have to feel bad about her feelings for you.”

“He-she- _she_ kissed me, Mummy.” Art pulled on his mother’s blouse, then returned his face to the safety of her shoulder. “… kissed me,” he complained in indistinct mumble.

She grabbed her son gently, mouthing ‘that bitch’ and other profanities behind his back. Rose held back and frowned unhappily. “Well, that’s not nice.”

Art pushed himself up. “Is it?”

“Well, no. I don’t know, but,” Rose frowned again, “Mummy doesn’t like seeing you sad like this, baby. Do you want Mummy to talk to your teacher? Or _her mum_? When did this happen?”

“No…” Art shook his head gently. “And I’m not sad. I don’t think I’m sad. More like… Scared? No. Confused.”

“Oh.” She tilted her head. “Then, that’s fine. Of course you’re confused. This is all very new. It’s like the first time you learned how to read, do you remember that? You’re confused because you don’t understand anything yet, and you’re a little scared of the next lesson because you don’t want to be that confused again.” Art thought it over and nodded. Rose sighed and placed her comforting hands on his shoulders. “But it’s gonna be less confusing, soon. Remember what Mummy said back then?” Art shook his head. Rose smiled. “That if you don’t learn now because you’re scared, you won’t ever understand and you’ll be scared for the rest of your life.”

Art’s eyes darted around in mild confusion. “So I have to do it now?”

She nodded. “Like a band-aid. Just rip it off quickly.”

“So I do _what_ now?”

“Alright, let’s see…” Rose looked up, thinking. This wasn’t a conversation she could learn from one of her housewives’ columns, but Rose was a clever lady. She started slowly. “Artie, you’re not sad, so… other than confused, what do you think you’re feeling right now?” She smiled. “Are you happy that she likes you?”

“ _Loves_ me,” he corrected, then nodded. “Yeah, I guess. But just because h-sh-she’s my friend, and I wouldn’t like it if… _she…_ hates me instead.”

“Makes sense…”

“But being kissed is very different,” Art continued quickly. Art frowned and pouted to his knees, as if they just did something very, very bad. “That was weird. Like it’s not supposed to happen. Also, gross. And maybe… maybe… wrong?” He fidgeted in his seat, the lines on his forehead got a little deeper. “Like, if people know, they’d yell at us? _You_ would yell at us.”

“Oh, Artie, I’m not gonna yell at you!” Rose put her hands to cup his jaw and lifted his face, forcing him to look at her. “Listen to me, baby. I’m not gonna be mad at you just because someone kissed you, okay? It’s not your fault, and, honestly, you’re going to do a lot more of that. I can’t be mad at every girl that might kiss you.”

That wasn’t really what he meant, but still Art’s eyes widened a little. “You think so?”

She nodded sternly. “Of course, I do. Look at you! You’re the most handsome boy in the whole world! Every girl would want to kiss you!”

Art smiled shyly. “You’re just saying that because you’re my Mum.”

“No, I’m saying that because it’s true.” She winked a little at him. “And I bet if you ask her, she’ll say the same, too.”

Art imagined that happening. “No, I’m gonna get laughed at.”

Rose frowned and pouted. “Sounds very charming, your friend.” She patted his cheeks. “Okay, now. Are you feeling better? Do you wanna stay in and help me set up the table? We have cheesecakes for dessert.”

That’s what he did. He selected the plates and cutlery very carefully, trying to get the colours to match. He pointed at his least favourite bowl and told his Mum that it’s for Jules because Jules was not being nice to him. His mother frowned and said, “Did he, now?” and during the dessert time, Jules was punished with the smallest slice of the cheesecake. He protested, but Rose pulled a “well, then, don’t upset your brother” and Jules looked unhappily at Art. “You told Mum _everything,_ ” he accused.

Art looked down at his cheesecake and thought of how Paul said the exact same thing to him that early morning Wednesday. It was, apparently, true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My aunt just died several hours ago, and I thought I couldn't post any new chapter today... But there's really nothing I could do about that in this situation, so I did anyway, but I'm still pretty upset so I don't think I'll review and edit this any time soon. I hope it's passable tho :")


	5. Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunny day in the field.

What had inspired people to initiate Hebrew school? Cruelty. Definitely. Art’s eyes were bloodshot by the end of it, and his head was positively clouded. Like everyone, he took several seconds to shake himself out of the whole experience before he could get up and leave the room.

Jerry was waiting for him by his classroom door. His school ended earlier, and he would usually wait for Art to finish and they’d go home together. Jerry waved goodbye to his friends, who were still waiting for their mothers, and they exited the synagogue hand in hand.

“If they would just do the singing all day, I wouldn’t mind it at all,” Art commented as they walked on. Jerry had a piece of red lollipop from his friend, so he didn’t reply much. “In fact, I would’ve liked it very much.”

Jerry nodded. “I would listen to you.” He waved his lollipop to Art and said, “I like listening to you sing, but you know what? I like it better when you sing with Paul.” He gave the candy another lick. “You should do that more often.”

Art lifted his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you’re a fan,” he said. Jerry just shrugged and they walked the rest of the way in silence, safe for little suckling noises that Jerry made with his lollipop. Art wished people would stop talking about Paul so much, but he knew that the only way to do that was to make other friends. Art was not really into the idea.

Art thought, after everything, he should talk to Paul. Or… something. They definitely couldn’t just stop being friends, just like that… Or maybe they could. But, should they? Other than the kiss, Art still really liked hanging out with Paul. Art still really liked Paul.

When the two of them finally reached home, Art quickly looked for his mother. He excused himself and agreed to return for lunch, then dashed outside, leaving Jerry all stunned with his thinning candy in his hand.

Art ran as fast as he could—which was to say, not very—towards Paul’s house. He cursorily waved at neighbourhood kids who politely called “hey, Art…” to him as he passed by, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down when he had to go past Ruby, the dog from hell.

In a moment, Paul’s two-storied rowhouse came to view. Art looked up, finding the three-windowed room on the second floor. They wouldn’t have jumped out of _that_ window—if only they’d stayed here instead of Art’s that night…

“Hello, Artie! You’re just back from Sunday school?” Mrs. Simon chirped cheerfully when she opened the door for Artie. Art sighed and retreated a little, slightly disappointed. She put her hand on her hip and crooked a smile. “I tried to make Paul go, but he said he’d hide under the rabbi’s robe and unleash the frogs, whatever that means. I wonder if he’d change his mind if I use you to lure him in…” She laughed and patted Art on the arm. “I’m just kidding. You’re here to see Paul?”

Art nodded.

“He’s not home yet, honey. He’s got a morning practice today.” She turned her head to see the clock on the wall, frowning. “If you make a run for it, you might still find him there. You wanna go and fetch him for me?” Artie nodded again. She smiled at him. “Then, run! I’ll prepare some iced tea for when you two get home.”

And again, Art did run. He cursed a little to himself for forgetting it—Paul _always_ had baseball on Sunday. He had a lot of people to play with when it came to baseball; just not Art, sadly. Art carefully twirled his head around while walking, just in case Paul was walking home on the other side of the street. No loud dark-haired boy in sight.

The baseball field, for Art, always looked a little like a desert—dry, sandy, unappealing. He liked the game alright—the rooting for the wrong team, the drinking soda, the victory walk home (if they won)—but the playing was not for him. Paul was good at it, though. Paul was the first to bat, and he ran like a tiny cheetah. He could probably run from Jules had he decided to try to run him over with a car.

Art found the little team was leaving when his feet came to a halt. Some of them knew Art and nodded with a smile or a tip of the hat as they filed out of the field. Art stuck out his neck to find Paul amongst the crowd. Before he hurt his muscle, one of the kids tugged on his shirt and pointed towards the field.

Too jittery to wait until everyone managed to squeeze through the door, Art ran along on the outside of the fence. He found Paul frowning under the shade of his cap, swinging bat at the chain links. He regarded Artie and tapped the bat to his shoe. “What do you want?” he asked. “Slap me?”

“No…”

“Hit me with a bat?”

“A little…”

Paul lifted his bat and tapped it against the fence in front of Art. “Have at it.”

Art walked a step closer, curling his fingers on the links. “I’m not gonna do it,” he said. Art pressed his face to the fence. He could feel the wire slightly heated from the Sunday sun and he thought of the criss-cross pattern on steak he sometimes had when his parents took the family to eat outside. Art liked to eat in a diner where menus had pictures on it and people’s birthdays were celebrated by a roomful of strangers. “I said I want to. Didn’t say I will.”

Paul swung the bat to rest on his shoulder. “Then what are you doing here? You wanna yell at me? Listen, I’m sorry, alright? I snapped. I know I’m not supposed to do that.”

“How do you know?” Paul jerked a little, startled. Art looked at the ground under Paul. The sand was dirtying his white shoes. Paul should go home and wash it. As he was saying his next question, Art noticed how his voice came out like a whine and he hated it. “How do you know you love me?”

Paul shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s kinda like… I don’t know. Like hearing a song and just like it.” He twirled his bat, then lowered it again. “Then you sing it, then you get to really like it. Then you just,” he moved for a swing, careful not to hit Art by accident, “want to keep hearing it.”

He sighed. Paul dropped the bat. It fell with a distinct thump and collapsed without grace on the sandy patch. He walked closer to Art and he, too, curled his fingers around the chain link fence. “So, I love you. Is that really a bad thing?”

Art shook his head, kept his gaze low. “It’s not bad, it’s… wrong. People would say it’s wrong.”

“What if there’s no other people in the world? Is it still bad?”

Art didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He’s a kid. This was too difficult.

Paul nudged on Art’s finger until it left the wire and perched on Paul’s fingertip instead. He moved it from side to side, and for a while, they just stared at the tiny dance.

“What if,” Art whispered slowly, “it’s not a big deal?” Paul lifted his face, looking confused. Art wiggled his finger. “I mean… People get married when they’re adult. So, maybe you have to be adult first to actually be in love.”

“You think so?” Paul lifted his eyebrows. “You think because I’m a kid, it’s not real?”

Art shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s real. It’s just not that big a deal.”

Paul looked at the sky, wincing under the sunlight, thinking. Art didn’t realise, but their fingers were now interlaced—Paul did that when he was busy yapping. He tapped his finger on Art’s knuckle, grasping on words. It sure felt like a big deal for him. But maybe Art just needed to believe that it’s not.

“You know,” Paul finally said, “it’s like that song that you like. The one that you sang in the talent show.”

“Too Young?” Art’s face lit up and he grinned widely. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

Paul smiled and let go of his hand. He bent down to pick up his bat and his glove, and said, “How did it start again?”

That’s all it took to get Artie to start singing. Paul looked at him as they walked away and towards the end of the fence, him with his bat on his shoulder, Art with his hands in his pockets. He looked the prettiest when he’s singing, Art; like a little bird, like a spring blossom, like a ray of sunshine. Paul smiled to himself before he joined in with the harmony. Art stopped and turned his heels, and for several seconds, they just sang together in the empty field, separated by the fence, facing each other.

It’s like hearing a song and just like it, he said. Then you sing it, then you get to really like it. Then you just want to keep hearing it. Paul watched how his head moved and his face tilted, how his mouth opened and how his chest rose and sank. For the moment, the world seemed to stop.

He just wanted to keep hearing this.

Art stepped forward again, and Paul followed his suit. And again, Art clawed on the link. His mouth was ajar, but he didn’t say anything. So Paul said it. It always had to be him to say it. “That last part sounds ugly,” he stated. Paul was looking at his feet. The edge of his cap bumped on the fence. He felt Art’s finger moved it upwards for some reason. He could feel more light of the Sunday noon and the shadow that Art’s head casted fell upon his face. “I think it’s better if you go lower.”

Art nodded. “Let’s start over.”

Paul nodded back. “Let’s start over.”


	6. Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monday attack at school.

Paul didn’t go to school today. The teacher said he’s sick. Art spent his time having lunch with a couple of friends, staring idly at the boys kicking ball while munching on their sandwiches. It’s eggs today for Art, and he’s not very happy about it. His mother cooked a lot of good food, but egg sandwiches were not one of them.

It’s always a relatively less loud day without Paul around. Art impressed himself with the creation of a very pretty graph that no one else could appreciate, because no one could find a graph pretty except Art. When the bell rang, Art happily stuffed his notebooks to his bag and walked breezily through the schoolyard, quietly singing to himself. He might come and see Paul, he thought. Maybe in the afternoon, while waiting for dinner. Maybe Paul would have some hot milk to drink with honey. Art liked sick-time food.

Just when he made it to the gate, a little hurricane hit the stomach of Arthur Garfunkel with full force.

“NOOOOOOOO!!!”

Unprepared, Art stumbled backwards and fell on his bag. The yelling was loud, and it stopped everyone in their tracks. It's a familiar voice, so Art knew he's not gonna get murdered by a stranger in front of his school. Art opened his eyes to find crying Eddie was raining him with tiny punches. He screeched, “Eddie? Ow! What the hell?”

But Eddie only replied with an angry, “No! No! No!” and kept on punching Art like he's gonna get crowned for it. Art tried his best to ward off the attacks, but he was too flustered to react fast (and he was never blessed with gift of fast-reacting anyway). Eddie pushed him when he tried to rise. “What did you do?!”

“What?” Art gathered his eyebrows in confusion. His back was unhappy about the pushing, but Eddie was 8 and it's gonna be stupid and immature to push him back. Besides, Paul would behead him had he found out that Art pushed Eddie. Accepting the attack was the least dangerous choice. “What are you talking about? Eddie, stop punching me.”

Eddie did stop punching Art, and in exchange, he started bawling. Art looked around, panicking and noticing how people were staring at them. Eddie was so loud, he could tear up the earth. Or the eardrums. Art sat up and carefully stroke Eddie’s arm, trying to calm him down before the wailing caused any permanent damage to his hearing. Eddie was sobbing violently, but soon Art noticed that he was saying something. Art waited until the sobbing subsided, patting him gently with as much patience as he could muster. At least the punching had stopped, he thought. Eddie and Paul were small, but they didn’t hold back with brute force.

Finally, Eddie wiped his face and hiccupped a little before speaking in tiny whimpering voice, “You made him cry.”

Art blinked in surprise. “What?” He frowned. “Paul?”

Eddie nodded, then he scowled and started punching again. But it wasn’t as hard, so Art swallowed him in a hug until he calmed down. Eddie wasn't going insane. He's just angry and misguided enough to try and defend his wounded brother who, Art was sure, did not know anything about this vengeful mission. Gently, Art pushed him until he stood up. He took one hand while Eddie used the other to wipe his tears, and they walked together across the street. Art offered him his handkerchief and they made their way home in silence for a while.

The route brought them to the old familiar park. Art couldn't help but putting himself to a brief halt to take a look at it. The park was already crowded with the tire swing queue. Kids were screaming at each other, urging whoever’s on the swing to get off. Art pursed his lips and exhaled slowly, thinking about everything that’s begun with the little three words Paul said to him that Wednesday early morning. And now he’s crying. He’s crying because of those words.

“Eddie,” Art squeezed his hand a little. “Eddie, Paul cried?” Eddie looked up and nodded. Art frowned. “Is that why he didn’t go to school?”

“No, Paul had fever. BECAUSE HE CRIED TOO MUCH. That’s what Mom said.” Eddie was quiet for a little while. “Is it not because of you?”

Art looked at him again. “No, I think it’s me. But I didn’t mean to make him cry. I didn’t know he was gonna cry because of it. He was alright the last time I saw him.”

“Yeah. And he cried the moment you left.” Eddie kicked Art and stepped on his toe. “It’s you! Why did you make him cry?! What did you do!?”

“Ow! Eddie, please stop! If you don’t stop, I’ll tell Paul you’re hitting me!”

Eddie folded his arms. “You’re such a tattletale. I don’t know why he likes you so much.” Eddie’s eyebrows were still knitted angrily, and he took Art’s hand again and they resumed the trek home.

Art felt very bad. He’s sure that Eddie had never seen Paul crying before, just like he’d never seen Jules cried. At least not for reasons that’s not a laughing material. It must be hard to see someone you looked up to breaking down like that. If Jules cried, Art would’ve cried, too. Perhaps it’s fair that Eddie had an explanation or so.

Art tugged on his arm. “Eddie, who’s your best friend?”

Eddie looked up, thinking. “Paul.”

“Not Paul. Your best friend in school.”

“Paul’s in school.”

“Just not Paul.”

“But you said best friend. You can’t have _two_ best friends. You have one best friend, very, very close friends, good friends, friends, buttwipes.” He puffed his chest. “That’s what Paul said.”

Art frowned and considered whether he had to find help for Eddie, but decided that it’s their mother’s problem. “Okay, fine. So, what would you do if your best friend…”

“Paul.”

“Yes, whatever, Paul. What if they want to do something with you but you know that you’re not supposed to do it?”

Eddie furrowed his eyebrows, then nodded curtly. “You do it.”

“But people would be mad if you do it.”

“You do it.” Eddie tilted his head, staring at Art. “Because Paul would promise nothing would happen to me. He always promised.” He did. Art took a moment to process that. Eddie scowled at him again. “Is that it? He wanted to do something with you, and you said no? It must be something very, very important to him, Artie. Why did you say no?”

Art bowed down his head, feeling sad and guilty. “Because I’m scared?” He slowed down his steps, slightly fearing the approaching house. “Do you think he’s mad at me?”

Eddie thought it through. “No. If you’re scared, he’s not gonna be mad. He’s gonna wait until you stop being scared.” Eddie hopped energetically, his backpack bouncing on him. “One time, when I was scared of lightning, Paul asked if I’d like to play in the rain with him and I said no, so he played alone and he called and waved at me from outside. And because it seemed fun and he promised, one day, I went with him and we played in the rain.” He giggled. “It _was_ fun.”

Art shuddered at the thought of germs one might caught in the rain, but that _did_ sound fun. Maybe he’d try that, sometimes, if it rained and Paul was around to tell him what to do. Paul’s gonna wait until he stopped being scared, right? That’s what Eddie said, and that did sound like Paul. Art smiled and stopped Eddie’s hopping. “Hey, Eddie? If your best friend is Paul, and _my_ best friend is Paul, and you only get to have _one_ best friend, who’s Paul’s best friend?”

Eddie pouted. “Me!”

“Yeah, but what if it’s me?”

So Eddie punched him for the rest of the way and Art just laughed it off. He didn’t let go of Eddie’s hand until they’re in front of the Simon’s house, and Eddie jumped to open the door and ran inside while yelling his greetings. The answer came from a little further into the house, and it was: “Eddie, is that you? Why are you so late? Did you get in trouble? Hey, you look like you just cried. WHO TOOK YOUR LUNCH MONEY?”

Paul walked from the living room, wearing his comfy red-striped pyjama. He patted Eddie, who just yelled “NO ONE, I’M HUNGRY”, and told him that his mother left soup in the stove and would return in an hour. Then Paul noticed the door’s still open with Art’s big yellow hair still on it, and he came approaching with a big smile. “Hey.”

Art replied the smile. “You’re sick?”

“Nah, just didn’t wanna look at your ugly face today. Hey, did Eddie cry? What happened?”

Art shook his head, although that wasn’t the answer to Paul’s question. He stepped forward and reached out to Paul, then drew him into a hug. He felt Paul’s body tensed up in his arms, and Art mumbled an explanation, “I’ve never hugged you before.”

Paul frowned and patted his back nervously. “Uh-huh.” Paul cleared his throat. “Well, this is nice.” He paused. “And very weird.”

Art laughed and let him go. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. Thank God, I thought it’s only me.” He grinned, his hand’s still holding on to Paul so he gave him a little squeeze. “I’m gonna go home,” he said. Paul made a humming noise in reply. “But I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Paul smiled and nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Art unfurled his fingers and released Paul from what’s left of his embrace, then walked slowly backwards, waving his hand. Paul waved back as he closed the door and retreated, too. After the small thud marked the closing of the door, Art turned his heels and started towards his own home, thinking about what he did and why he did it.

Somehow the thought made him smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eddie is irl 8-year-old me attacking a boy who insulted my sister HAHAHA i was so stupid she didn't even know


	7. Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuesday afternoon at the synagogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... after this, I'm gonna take a break to mourn and... actually work. I hope I'll remember to write the last part of the other series, but please remind me if I forget LOLOLOL.

Mary Gilbert sat on ten o’clock of Art. She had funny hair, Mary Gilbert. It was black with bluish tint, and it’s curled in a very old-womanly manner. It made her look like she’s supposed to be buying oranges for dinner instead of taking notes on words of the day in English class.

At exactly 9:18 AM that morning, Mary Gilbert tapped her thin finger on the corner edge of Art’s desk. It’s carrying a crumpled scrap of paper, and Art slipped it out of her, nodding a thank you, which she replied with a bored shrug. Mary Gilbert wasn’t interested in anything.

Art unfolded the paper and found Paul’s hurried scribbles written on it. _DID EDDIE REALLY PUNCH YOU YESTERDAY?_ in very big letters and below it, in significantly smaller ones, _and did you make him cry?_ Art grinned. They’re so much alike, the Simon brothers; not only in appearance, but in thought processes as well. Art wrote the reply in his notebook, but before the note reached Paul, it was seized by an irritated teacher.

He raised the note to his nose and read it aloud. “Yes. No. Maybe. What is this, a questionnaire?” He tapped his book on Art’s head. “Continue the reading, Mr. Garfunkel.”

Art shuffled to get his book and stood up, lifting his gaze towards Paul at the front of the class, who secretly made shapes of 5 and 7 with his fingers, and Art quickly followed the guide. Then Paul barked from his seat, “Dammit, Artie, I said 75!”

They both received a detention.

***

“I should tell my Mum I got a detention.”

“That’s stupid. You don’t have to tell your mother _everything_.”

Art took a slice of apple from Paul’s lunch box. His mother had made a tiny cup of caramel dip for the apple because Paul had begged her to—this makeshift caramel apple that Art didn’t get to buy in the carnival, Paul said, was to compensate all the confusion he’d caused. “I’m not gonna lie to my Mum.”

Paul shrugged. The school’s ended now, but they had to take time for lunch because their detention took the whole lunch hour, and it would be that way for the next whole week. It’s all Art’s fault, really. He could’ve been more discreet. Or it’s Paul’s fault, for starting the note exchange. But whosever fault it was, they’re trapped in this together, and catching up with lunch, with cold food, was not that bad when you’re not alone. “You don’t have to _lie._ Just don’t tell her. But, know what? Whatever. She’s gonna be mad at you.” Then, he frowned. “And she’s gonna be mad at me, too. God, Artie, just don’t tell her.”

Art laughed. “My Mum’s _always_ mad at you. Don’t worry about it.” He wiped his hand on a napkin and twirled to face Paul. “I have school in a couple of hours.”

“Right. Tuesday. Off you go, then.” Paul nodded. Then he frowned thoughtfully. “What do people do in Hebrew school?”

Art shrugged. “Learn Hebrew.”

“That sounds like fun.”

Art giggled. “You obviously had _never_ been to a Hebrew school.”

He laughed in reply. “Alright, but _everyone_ said that it’s horrible, so, like, it can’t be that horrible. I mean, people make things sound more horrible than it actually is, so…” He looked at Art, his eyes glinting with mischief and he grinned widely. Paul grabbed Art’s arm. “Take me there.”

“To Hebrew school?”

“To Hebrew school!” Paul dragged him and bounced on his feet excitedly. “Yours is in the temple, right? Come on!”

Art wanted to tell Paul that he didn’t bring his notebook and had to fetch it at home, but Paul ran so fast, it’s impossible to speak without biting his tongue. But the further they ran, the more excited he was about going to there—which was far from his usual feelings about going to Hebrew school. In several minutes, Art’s protests had turned into giggles, and Paul no longer had to drag him. They ran as fast as they could through the pavements, happy without a cause.

Getting inside a place of worship was always scary, but more so when you’re a child, and more so when you’re entering it with someone who’s definitely going to disturb the peace of the place. Art tiptoed past the door, hunching his back and tried to merge into the shadows. Paul looked up, taking in the interior. He pointed at the balcony. “I’ve never sat there.”

“It’s very high, don’t you think?” Art commented. He looked around and pointed at the barred stairs. “I think you get up from there.”

“Aw, it’s locked. Let’s see if they have other entrance.” Paul walked to the other direction, his head’s still tilted towards the ceilings. He pointed at the arc and whispered, “I like that fancy lamp.”

“I bet there’s a real name for it,” Art commented. “I don’t think they’d ever use the words ‘fancy lamp’ in here.”

“What’s it called, then?”

“Dunno.”

Paul laughed at Art’s incompetence but didn’t make too much noise. He grabbed Art and took him towards a newly-discovered unlocked gate to the stairway, climbing it as quietly as they could and slightly left the door ajar. Paul giggled merrily when they reached the gallery, tiptoeing to see the synagogue from above and sighed in adoration. “If we fall, we’re gonna die!” he excitedly said to Art, who quickly moved away from the sides.

They walked around for a little, combing the rows of chairs carefully. Art found another stairway they could use to run away, and Paul decided to call the fancy lamp ‘flamp’. After a while and they’d walked through every row, he returned to the front and tugged on Art’s bag and grinned. “Artie, let’s sing. People sound very good in temples. Let’s sing.”

Art scoffed a little laughter. “Okay, but if we’re captured, it’s your fault. What do you wanna sing?”

Paul stopped to think for a while. “Something fitting the place. Something religious.”

Art shrugged. “I know some Hebrew songs.”

“No, no…” Paul giggled. He giggled very mischievously, then started singing Silent Night. Art whispered “that’s not right” but he giggled and joined in, and they sang a verse or two until somebody walked in and yelled, “Who’s that?” They both quickly ducked and covered each other’s mouth, their shoulders shook from the muffled giggling.

“Hey, Paul?” Art whispered. They were leaning on the parapet, still grinning and their one hand was resting on each other’s lap, tired from their task of guarding the laughter. Paul sighed as reply, too weak to make words. “Did you cry because of me?”

Paul lifted his eyebrow. “Eddie told you, didn’t he? It’s pretty stupid, attacking you because of that. I’m sorry.”

Art shrugged. “Why, though? Is it because,” he paused a little, “I said it wasn’t a big deal?”

Paul scratched his temple absently. “No, more like… because you don’t love me the way I prefer? But it’s fine. You don’t _have_ to. I’m just a little sad, that’s all. You’re gonna be sad too, if it happens to you.” He frowned. “I hope it won’t.”

“I do like you, though,” Art insisted, somewhat desperately. “I just never thought of things like that.”

“Yeah, I get it. That’s why it’s fine.” He paused, then finally looked at Art. “But if you’ve thought of it and you don’t hate it, let me know.”

Art nodded. “I will.”

They fell silent, and the footsteps were convinced of this silence. It left the room with a small grumble. Paul looked at Art’s hand that’s still on his lap, and he knew he should stay quiet. “I want to kiss you again sometimes,” was not a very exciting sentence to hear when you didn’t want to hear it.

“I mean, the thing is, our friends are gonna laugh at us, right?” Art suddenly spoke again. Paul turned to face him, his eyebrows lifted in surprise of the abrupt response. Art was deep in thoughts and it made his face crunched as if it’s angry at his feet. “But I guess, you don’t care about them.”

Paul shook his head. “No.”

Art nodded. He knew that. Paul would wait, Eddie said. He knew that, too. Paul would wait until he’s no longer scared. What did his mother say before? Other than scared, what do you feel?

Art took Paul’s hand so suddenly that Paul jerked a little. “If I’m okay with it,” Art said slowly, pointedly staring at the way their hands intertwined, “ _and_ there _are_ other people in this world, apparently…”

Paul sat up straight and reached for Art’s other hand, holding it tight, and he nodded bravely. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said. He hunched a little and he tilted his head upwards, trying to catch Art in the eyes. He gave the little hands a little squeeze. “I promise.”

Art looked at him and somehow felt sure that Paul really wouldn’t let anything happen to him. In spite of how small he was, how unrealistic his big words were, Art believed it. He felt his fingers squirming with Paul’s hands in and around it. They’re all a little scared.

He took a deep breath.

If he’s not scared, what would he do?

So Art leaned forward and kissed Paul.


End file.
